Texas Wisdom
by EmpressGalaxia
Summary: An alternate universe Michiruka. Michiru's tour bus is involved in an accident when it hits an unlucky, yet handsome, state worker. >^..^


Texas Wisdom

A Fanfic by EmpressGalaxia

Ownership? Pah. I own neither Haruka nor Michiru, nor do I own the state of Texas, though I do have an Alamo colouring book my parents bought me when we passed through the state.

According to the Texas Department of Transportation, one person is killed every year while painting stripes on that state's roads and highways. But for every person that dies, I'm sure there are quite a few close calls.

I was reviewing my latest composition on my tour bus when it happened. Yes, bus. I was used to private jets that toured me around the world, but they (it's always "they" and "them", isn't it?) decided it would make me seem more "real" to these people if I jaunted around their country on land.

And what a large country it was. At first I thought my concert dates were so spaced out so I could have breaks between shows, and take mini-vacations. They were set apart, because it took so damned long to get from one place to another.

Tetsu, my sound coordinator, brings out a map and points to our location. It means nothing to me, but I'm glad _someone_ knows where we are. "Texas?" I ask. "It's so big! It'll take us forever to get through this state!" I lean back in my seat, cradling my precious violin. Maybe if I take a short nap, we'll be through this God-forsaken place before I know it.

The screech of tires and a thud jars me from my respite. I hear the driver curse in English (an American), and I stand and walk to the front to ask what happened. "Holy shit," he repeats, "I hit him."

Tetsu runs ahead of me and tries to stop me from going further. "Don't look, Kaioh-san," he warns. I push past him to see what our driver has hit.

It's a man. A tall blonde man, with a touch of femininity in his face. He's bleeding all over the road. "What was he doing out here?"

"He's a state worker. He was painting the lines out there. Oh shit, this'll get my license taken away."

"Forget your license and call the hospital, dammit!"

I can understand how he would have missed the worker. His clothes and hair are sandy-coloured, and he almost blends in with this empty landscape. I notice his eyes look Japanese. Maybe he has family at home? Family that wonders where he is? Family that will miss him if he dies?

In the background, I hear Tetsu speaking his best English on the phone, trying to tell the ambulance that we really are "in the middle of nowhere."

My feet carry my body out the bus doors, and to the man. Checking his pulse, I thankfully find him alive. Weak, but alive. "You're going to be okay," I whisper. "Just stay with me, alright?"

In a lilting American accent that belies his physical appearance, he asks, "Are you an angel?"

"No," I reply, "I'm just a silly girl with a violin and a dangerous bus driver."

"Hey, I know you from TV..." he coughs before closing his eyes.

I panic as I feel his pulse fade. "No, please, stay alive! Your family will miss you!"

"No they won't; they hate me," he whispers.

I'm running out of ideas, and I need to keep him here until the ambulance arrives. "Uh...I'll...I'll miss you! I'd feel horrible if I killed you! Please stay with me!"

His eyes open again, and I notice they're the colour of sapphires. "Don't worry, I don't think I ever want to leave _you_."

Great. Now he's in love with me. Hopefully, he won't be a crazy stalker, like the others. Sirens can be heard in the distance, and I'm glad that the hospital knows how to find the "middle of nowhere" rather quickly. 

They load him onto a stretcher and roll him into the back. I don't know why I asked it, I just know I did: "Can I ride with you?"

"Sure, hop in, ma'am, but hurry," an EMT, this one with a much stronger accent, answers. I tell Tetsu to follow, and "hop in."

Never one to be sickened by the sight of blood, I watch them wrap the man with bandages and prod him with IV's. 

"He yer boyfriend?"

"Pardon?"

"Nothin', just the way yer lookin' at 'im. Hey, don't I know you?"

"You're the violinist, aren't you?" the other asks. 

"Michiru Kaioh," I reply, offering my hand. 

They each shake it, and the second tells me, "That's some talent you got there, ma'am."

"Thank you. How's he doing?"

"Well, he's holdin' up pretty good fer bein' hit by a bus. Some broken bones, some internal bleedin', nothin' we can't fix at the hospital."

I smile and breath a sigh of relief.

ðððððððððððððð

I watch him sleep from the chair near his bed. He _is_ quite handsome, but I know he's not for me, simply because of his gender. I've always been honest about my sexuality, though not overtly open. If anyone asks, I tell them, but I choose not to shout it from the rooftops. Beyond that, I'm not sure if a long-distance relationship would work. When this tour is over, I swear never to return to this country, and stay at home in Japan; judging from his accent, he's lived here all his life and would not want to leave. 

Wanting a memory of this moment, I open the sketchbook I brought with me and start to draw him. His jaw has a soft curve to it, yet carries a masculine strength. A someday-wrinkle at the edge of his lips shows a definite smirk line, hinting at a pinch of arrogance. And his eyes...I remember them exactly from the brief moment he looked at me in front of the bus. He's searching for something; he's on a mission he is determined to fulfil. His hair looks windblown, even when still, as if he's always moving. Perhaps _he_ is the angel.

I'm studying my work so much, I don't notice he's woken up and is watching me. "I hope you got my good side," he croaks in Japanese.

"And here I almost thought you were an American," I reply in my native tongue. "You've been fooling me."

He laughs. "Well, the Americans know who's not an American, and that's enough for them." He pushes himself into a sitting position and extends a hand. "Haruka Tenoh."

"Michiru Kaioh."

"I _knew_ I recognised you. You're the violinist from home."

"Home? Didn't you grow up here?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Born and raised in Tokyo, I promise. Well, until my family kicked me out. Then I...just went searching, I guess."

"Searching for what?" I ask, intrigued.

"Acceptance," he shrugs. "Love." He looks pointedly at me. I know what's coming next.

Standing, I say, "Well, I apologise for what happened, but I have to get going or I'll be late for my concert. Here are two tickets, if you feel well enough to come to it..."

"How about dinner afterwards?" he asks.

And I thought I would get out of here before this came up.

Trying to smile, I tell him, "You're not my type, Tenoh-san."

"What, you don't go for the good-looking, talented types like me?"

"I take that back. Actually, your 'type' has nothing to do with it."

"Well, then, what is it? We don't even have to go to a restaurant; I'll cook, though I can't promise I'm good at it."

I've hit the man with my bus, and now I'm brushing him off for a date. Already feeling guilty, I try to explain. "I suppose you haven't read that much about me, have you?"

"I thought I had, but please enlighten me."

"I," sigh, "I am a lesbian. By definition, that means I don't date men."

Haruka gives me a confused look, then begins to laugh. "Oh, oh it hurts," he laughs through tears.

"What's so funny?" I prepare myself for the barrage of slurs I've received in my life.

He just points to his medical chart. "Look at it," he laughs more.

I reach for the folder at the end of his bed. Haruka Tenoh...age, 19...broken arm...

And then I see what he wanted me to read.

Sex: F

I peek over the folder at her smiling sapphire blues. 

I smile, too.

"So what's this about you cooking dinner for us?"


End file.
